


not always

by fadewords



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Autistic Beauregard (Critical Role), Autistic Caleb Widogast, Autistic Nott (Critical Role), Autistic Yeza Brenatto, Beauregard (Critical Role) Has ADHD, Caleb Widogast & Yeza Brenatto - Freeform, Fluff, Gen, Nonverbal Caleb Widogast, Nott/Yeza - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, in which i Project Heavily On Caleb but it's Fine Actually bc he's Just That Autistic, though that last is only barely touched on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-06-27 06:25:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19785070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadewords/pseuds/fadewords
Summary: five times there was a reason caleb went nonverbal, and one time there wasn't.





	1. startled

Caleb wanders the shop, hands tucked in his pockets, and stares at the rough wooden shelves, all tacked to the walls haphazard and impossibly crowded with a wide variety of things. Little globes, shining stones, fancy quills, fine shears, fox skulls, spools of thread, ticking implements, bits of wood, gem-encrusted knives, vials of ink and other shimmering liquids….

He wonders at those. (Not the ink, it looks cheap and old, half-separated, utterly useless for his purposes. No, the other vials, the shimmering ones.)

A few resemble simple healing potions, but the rest—well. They are not like any healing potions he has ever seen, and he has been on the receiving end of very, very, _very_ many, both store-bought and homemade. So, probably they are not for healing, at least not in the traditional sense, not for knitting up wounds and the like. But what precisely they _are_ for...it is hard to say. Impossible, even. He’s never seen their like.

Nott would know, he thinks abruptly. Nott, and Yeza.

He pulls one hand out of his pocket and traces the air in front of the nearest jar. Its contents sparkle more than they shimmer, and there’s a suspicious layer of silver-blue along the bottom—little more than glittered water, he suspects. He may of course be wrong, and would have to disturb the contents to be more certain—though Nott, Yeza, and Jester would all almost certainly be able to tell at a glance—but he is familiar enough with glitter, thanks to Jester, to feel reasonably confident in his guess.

He is not, however, familiar enough with potions to know which this glitter mixture is meant to mimic—if it is meant to mimic one at all. Perhaps it is only supposed to sparkle and draw the eye of someone completely ignorant of such things. Or perhaps….

He files it away to ask later and takes a step sideways, staring now at a dark gray vial, at least four times as interesting, more shimmer than sparkle, and coated in a thin layer of dust. He itches to trace patterns in it, to clear it off entirely, to pick up the vial and turn it this way and that.

He resists, and instead glances at the final two neighboring vials (one sludge green, with swirls of iridescence, and another a deep, shimmery purple-red that reminds him of plum sauce) and hovers a finger in front of the lot, thinking vaguely of casting Detect Magic.

“Hey!”

Caleb flinches hard—shoulders jumping up-and-in, hands freezing in place, eyes scrunching shut.

He pulls his arms back in sharply and turns to see the weedy goblin shopowner frowning at him.

“Hands off the merchandise! Didn’t you see the sign?” They jab an arm at it.

Caleb nods, then shakes his head, then nods again. The sign, yes. Plain blackboard, white chalk, capital letters. Written in Common and Undercommon. He has not disobeyed it, but he can see how it may look—but he did not intend—though perhaps he should have considered—but it was only that—just—

Explanations and apologies buzz round inside his head, worded a dozen different ways, and he tries to settle them, consolidate them, lay a hand on the right ones—or at least on _passable_ —

But his mouth won’t open.

He splays his fingers wide instead, holds them up by his ears, and forces them slowly back into his pockets. (A show of good faith, he hopes.)

The shopowner seems mollified. “You wanna look at something, just ask.”

Caleb nods again, heart still pounding. He does not plan to ask. The point of considering Detect Magic in the first place was so that he would not have to.

“... _Do_ you wanna look at something?” They sound hopeful, Caleb thinks, and suddenly all he can see are the hollows of their thin, speckled face. (And Nott’s, months ago, equally pronounced.)

He glances at the vials before he can stop himself. Considers asking, for a fleeting moment—he is curious, and their face is so thin, and Nott would be _interested_ —but his mouth is locked shut, still, so he glances away again and shakes his head, pulling one corner of his mouth down in what he knows is passable regret. (He is truly regretful, it is not an act—but it feels one, a little, as it always does.)

He must look a little _too_ regretful, because the shopowner says, “You interested in the inks? Could give you a deal.”

He shakes his head, pulling the corner down further. Then dials it back. He does not want to appear disgusted.

“The potions?” they ask, undeterred.

Caleb hesitates. He still doesn’t want to ask, not really, and is mostly sure that he can’t, just now, but the curiosity remains, and Nott and Yeza would be interested, probably, and perhaps for their sakes if nothing else—

“Ah, the potions.” They grin. “Which ones?”

Caleb wavers. There are the healing potions, which could be useful, and there is the glitter one, which is useless but might make Jester laugh—and for a moment he is tempted to purchase it for her, but then it occurs to him that doing so would be tantamount to handing her a glitter bomb, and some weapons are simply too dangerous in the wrong hands, so he very quickly decides against it. Which leaves, of course, the healing potions, and the other three, the gray, and the green, and the purple. And again, of course, the healing potions could be _useful_ , they can never have too many of those, so probably he should just indicate them and leave.

Probably, probably.

But the shimmery ones are—interesting. Very interesting. And they are not exactly heading out into combat again anytime soon, and he does have three potions on his person already, and the shimmery ones are _very, very interesting_ , and Nott and Yeza will likely think so too, and he can imagine the little hop-skip Yeza will do, and the very spiny grin Nott will get, and the little furrowed brow and head tilt they will share without even looking at each other, and—

And there is no point wibbling back and forth any longer, his mind is already made up and he knows it. He will buy the colorful ones. He can always come back for the healing potions later, if he feels it is truly necessary—or else buy Caduceus the ingredients to make more of his own. (It is more cost-effective that way anyway, even if the potions _do_ invariably come out tasting a little of mushrooms and a lot of moss.)

Caleb gives the shopowner a tiny nod, aware that he has gone too long without answering. Then he gives him one more, stalling, and considers how to most concisely describe the ones he wants, tries to work up the words, pull them up, spit them out.

…No use.

He abandons the attempt and points to the vials instead, indicating each of them in turn. Simpler.

“All right, one moment.”

Caleb nods.

The shopkeep plucks them from the shelf and carries them over to the counter. “Here we are.”

Caleb follows and studies the countertop. Unpolished oak, sanded to perfection, not a single splinter in sight. And the vials—

How much are they? What are they? How long have they been gathering dust? Do they have expiration dates? What deal is to be offered? What is the original price? What are the savings? Is trade acceptable on top of whatever this deal is, to further offset the cost? Is he still only allowed to look and not touch?

The questions tumble in his head, stick in his lungs.

He fiddles with the edge of his sleeve, painfully aware of the shopkeep’s eyes on him, and considers. He could try Common sign (but the other might not know it). He could pull out a pen, write in the margins of his spellbook (no), or on the back of his hand (perhaps—but Jester may take it as a free pass to doodle whatever she likes on him, and he is less than amenable to the concept, at least today). He could mime his meaning (potentially frustrating). He could make assessing faces and then shake his head (embarrassing, and then he will not get the potions and he _wants_ them). He could force out just a few words, probably (maybe). He could….

“Well?”

Caleb flinches again before he can stop himself, and in one choppy motion pulls out his coin purse. Places it on the counter gently so it will not clink and give any indication of wealth to, perhaps, influence the prices. Then raises an eyebrow, a little awkwardly, trying to convey _how much_?

Luckily, it works. “Mmmmmmm, twenty gold. Each. But I’ll give you the lot for forty-five.”

Caleb nods and begins to pull out gold. He counts each piece in his head, placing one finger down on the side of his leg at each mark of ten so that he will not lose track, and tries not to feel weird about not counting aloud. (Fails, mostly. But that is all right. It will have to be all right.)

When four fingertips rest against his leg, he counts out five additional pieces, places them on the countertop with the rest, one-by-one, and pushes the gold forward.

The shopkeep scoops it closer to themself with a smile and waves at the potions. “All yours.”

Caleb nods his thanks, tries to mirror the smile—his mouth hardly moves—and carefully tucks the vials into the pocket containing his copper wire. Then, with another short nod and the barest hint of what he sincerely hopes is a friendly wave, he ducks his shoulders and ducks out of the shop.

He heads for the nearest bench, where he is to meet up with Nott and Yeza, and pulls the vials out of his pocket.

A moment, as he turns them this way and that to watch their contents shift and swirl and shimmer, and then he balances them on his knees and casts Detect Magic.

The gray and green vials begin to glow. The purple remains plain, its natural shimmer gone dull beside the others.

He lets the spell fade. Considers, for all the time it takes to blink the color-spots out of his eyes, casting Identify. Decides against it. He will ask Nott and Yeza their opinions instead. (That was, after all, half the point of the purchase.)

Back in his pockets the vials go, and he snaps his fingers and there is Frumkin to keep him company while he waits.

-

Seventeen minutes of head-scritching later, familiar footsteps skitter up the walk.

He lifts his head, and there is Nott, running full-tilt towards him. Yeza stumbles along at her heels, barely maintaining his grip on her hand.

Nott screeches to a halt and Yeza just barely keeps from falling flat on his face. “Oh, sorry, hon,” she says. Then, “Hi Caleb!”

He nods in acknowledgement and smiles at them both, only a little wooden.

“Sorry, sorry,” Nott says, ears drooping a little, “I know we’re late. We just, we got a bit sidetracked in the tea shop, there were—”

“—so many unusual herbs, they’re fascinating, I really have to find out just how they—”

“Yeah!” Her ears shoot back up and she beams. “We got some for the lab, so we can test properties and reactions and—”

“—experiment!” Yeza nods, beaming.

“I hope you weren’t waiting too long?” Nott twists the end of her braid. 

Caleb shakes his head. Pauses to scritch Frumpkin again, just behind the ears, and to consider speaking. His mouth is still comfortably closed, and his throat a little empty, but they feel less locked, now. He can speak, some, if he has to.

But—well. Nott is here. He does not have to. And she can translate for Yeza. So—

“Short,” he signs. Then, “You bought herbs. Which...?”

Nott twists the end of her braid again. “Oh. Um.” A pause. “Are you—?”

“They didn’t know the names in Common,” Yeza pipes up, and Caleb’s eyebrows fly to his hairline.

Nott shoots Yeza a funny look. (Angry? No, startled. Startled. Then—oh, he knows that look. Shame. For a long moment he can’t imagine why—then it occurs to him. Perhaps he learned Common sign while she was away? Or perhaps he knew it even before she left, and this is something she has forgotten.)

Yeza continues talking as though Nott isn’t wilting in front of them both. “—said one’s a variation on fennel, and the other three are completely unique to Xhorhas!”

Caleb glances back at him, frowning slightly, but does not comment on his spectacular lack of observation skills. “R-O-S-O-H-N-A?”

“Sorry, a little slower please?”

Caleb spells it again, slower. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Nott’s shoulders do a thing. (Relief?)

“Oh! No, not just to Rosohna. They grow some in the undergrounds, but they’re all native to different places.”

“Where?”

Yeza lets go of her hand, takes a step to the side, rummages in his pockets, pulls out a few bundles, and holds one up. “This one grows in marshlands. Supposed to be good for the eyes.” He holds up another. “This one grows along rock faces and is good for pain. Causes hallucinations if prepared, ah, _incorrectly_.” A wink, and then the last bundle. “And this I’m told is useless but tastes very nice with the fennel variant. I’m not so sure, though—well, I bet it does taste great, but I’m sure it has other uses too!”

“So we’re experimenting!” Nott chimes in.

Yeza nods again, very quickly. “Yeah!”

Caleb nods. “Fascinating.”

“Yeah!”

“You should ask Yasha about that.” He indicates the marsh one.

“Oh, good idea Caleb!” Nott turns to Yeza. “Yasha grew up in sort of marshy, swampy places. She might recognize it!”

“Oh cool! I wonder if….” Yeza trails off, mumbling to himself, clearly working out the logistics of four people crowded in front of the lab table at once when one of them is so large.

Caleb takes the opportunity to turn away from him, tap Nott’s shoulder, and ask, “Are you okay?”

She frowns. “Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

“Yeza understood me. You seemed…” He hesitates. “...upset?”

“Oh.” She frowns deeper, and the look comes back to her face for a moment. “I…” She hesitates, glances over Caleb’s shoulder at Yeza, who is still mumbling to himself, then signs, “He learned years ago. For me. I just….”

Caleb waits.

“He learned basics. I didn’t sign much. Y-E-Z-A—” A name sign indicating curly hair. “—understanding you? Unexpected.” She shrugs. “I guess….” She shrugs again, not meeting his eyes. “He learned more. After the goblins.”

“Also unexpected?” Caleb asks, because it feels softer than _without you_ and is a simpler (if no less stupid) question than _does it bother you_ , and sounds less like it comes with a wrong answer besides.

She nods rapidly. “Yeah. I—yeah. But it’s okay.”

Caleb nods back, and quickly turns to face forward again, and changes the subject, because it is obviously not okay, she is obviously still sad, but Nott does not look like she is going to say anything more, and he does not want to pry. “Caduceus’s tea. Did you find it?”

“Oh!” Her eyes widen and her ears freeze in place. “I’m not—um—” she says aloud as she rifles through her many pockets. “I—” Her voice goes higher-pitched. “Yeza?”

Yeza stops mid-mutter. “Huh?”

“Did we get Ducey’s tea?”

“Yeah, of course,” he says, tapping his other pocket. “Bought it first thing.”

Her face clears, her ears relax. “Oh, good.” Then, quickly, “What about you, Caleb? What did you find? Any books?”

Caleb shakes his head. “None. But—” He pulls the vials out of his pocket again.

“Oh!” Yeza bounces a little on his heels and adjusts his glasses. “Can I—?”

Caleb nods and passes him two. The green, the purple. He gives Nott the gray.

“Did you Identify them already?” she asks.

He shakes his head.

Yeza’s already swirling one of the vials critically and squinting at its contents. Nott uncaps hers and does the same. Then sniffs it. Carefully pours a drop on her fingertip. Rubs her finger and thumb together, makes a face.

“Probably not medicinal,” she says. “It’s—is it magic? Did you check for that?”

Caleb nods.

“It’s. It seems kinda like—but different. Maybe—” She holds it up a little, then frowns. “Could you—with the lights?”

Caleb sends two globules of light hovering round Nott’s head.

“Thanks.” She holds the vial up to the light and squints. “...Yeah,” she says, after turning it back and forth a few times and staring for a solid minute. “I’d have to do some more tests to be sure, but I think it’s like Yasha’s, maybe. The, the hulk-out one? Just—I think less potent, maybe? Or. Different kind of giant? Or both. I don’t know, like I said—tests.”

Caleb nods.

“Here—” She tries to hand it back. “You can Identify it to be sure.”

Caleb shakes his head, flaps a hand at her. “I trust you.”

“Oh. Well—thank you, Caleb. But still, you should hold onto it til we divide these up at the house, at least.”

He shakes his head again. “Yours.”

“...Oh. I mean, I don’t—I don’t think I should use this? It’s probably better if Yasha does again, or Jester, or Beau, or—Fjord could probably use it? Or you. You know, you’re very smart Caleb, but physically you’re just—you’re kind of—”

“Skinny, weak, yes.”

Nott grins, affectionate more than amused. “Well, yeah. So, here—”

“No thank you. Who keeps this? You choose.”

“I know. I’m choosing _you_ , Caleb.”

“...Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“…Okay.” A pause. “Thank you?” He doesn’t mean for it to be a question, but his brow furrows anyway.

“Of course!” A pause, a glance at Yeza, squinting at the second jar now, muttering under his breath, utterly absorbed. Then, quietly, “Are you...okay? You had words earlier. Did something happen in the shop? Did the gobby do something to you? Do you need me to kill them?” Her voice rises on the last sentence.

“No.” She looks unconvinced, so he concedes, “They startled me, a bit. Loud voice. But I’m fine.”

She scowls and places a hand on her crossbow. “I—”

“Accident,” Caleb insists. “Everything startles me. Always.”

Her scowl fades. “Well. Okay. It’s just—everything doesn’t always startle you so bad you lose your words!”

“Not always,” he agrees, making a face. There’s more he wants to say, about low threshholds and half-lost things and how he _can_ talk now, probably, it is just easier not to, but before he can—

“Oh. Bad day?”

“No, no. Only long.”

“Want to go back to the house?”

“...Yes.”

“Okay.” She turns. “Yeza—”

“Mm?” Yeza blinks up from scrutinizing the nonmagical potion. (Caleb does not know him well, so he cannot be certain, but he gets the impression that the absorption is feigned, this time—that Yeza has been trying to ignore their conversation, to give them privacy. It is sweet, but unnecessary. Nott may have tried to wait for him to be distracted, but Caleb does not much care if Yeza knows that sometimes Caleb is not okay, or any of the rest of what they discussed.)

“We’re heading home, hon.”

“Oh. All right. Here, Mister Caleb.” He tries to hand back the vials.

Caleb waves a hand. “You keep them.”

“Are you sure? This one’s not much, but _this_ —” He holds up the green. “You may want to hold onto it.”

“You keep them,” he says again. “Explain their purpose, please? I am curious.”

“Oh! Okay, well—”

“ _While_ we walk,” Nott reminds him, and he starts walking, still explaining, and she follows.

Caleb trails after, listening.

It’s a bit tricky to follow, with the noise round them, as they move through more crowded streets, but he manages, mostly, and hums a little at the exuberant way Yeza gestures as he speaks. (So exuberant, in fact, that he accidentally clotheslines Nott midsentence and doesn’t even notice because he’s still walking, still talking, still waving his arms wildly, eyes bright and shining. Nott doesn’t say anything, just looks at Yeza adoringly, every line of her face gone soft, a silly, spiny grin stretching over the whole of it.)

Caleb hums again.

A good purchase, he thinks. A very good purchase indeed.


	2. interrupted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a wild nv caleb chapter appeared!!

Caleb sits in the kitchen with his back to a corner and a book propped up on his knees.

He turns a page. Another. Another.

—Turns back.

There is something funny in the grammar, just there. And there was something funny two pages back as well. And—he flips ahead again. Two pages from now, more funny business.

Irregularities in the syntax. Regular irregularities.

A code, perhaps?

Interesting.

He pulls out a spare scrap of paper and begins taking notes. Within minutes, he’s lost in them, the world narrowing down to the weight of the book on his knees and the lines of text before his eyes.

The irregularities are very regular indeed. Almost certainly a code of some kind. He is very near to parsing it, and thinks perhaps these marks—

—A cabinet door slams.

He slams the book shut, cringing, and whips his head up as a growl builds in his throat. He squashes it down (wizards do not growl), and breathes, and unwinds his shoulders.

It is only Beau.

Only Beau, looking a little startled over her shoulder at him, as though she’s heard the sound he hasn’t made (impossible, he hasn’t made it, but she stares regardless—oh, she must have heard the book).

“Shit, Caleb. Didn’t see you.” She turns back to the cabinet, starts rifling through it. “I’ll be out of your hair in a minute. Just grabbing something.”

He pries his fingers loose from the pages and blinks at her once. That was...almost an apology. But not the usual kind. Not up-front or bitten-off. A little odd, that. “No,” he says. “I mean— _yes_ , okay. But, ah, there is no rush?”

“Well, if you’re so _busy_ in here, I—”

He blinks again, owlish. _There_ is the bite in her words. But— “I am not so busy.” How has she gotten that impression? And even that aside, why should his being busy mean that she—?

“Uh.” She turns, gestures to his scrap paper, the pen in his hand, the book.

...Oh.

“...I am a little busy,” he concedes. “But it is not important, it is just a little—side project, ja?”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“What?”

Beau shrugs, crosses her arms. “I walked in and you just—had that look.”

“Look?”

“Like.” She pauses, scowling. "Like someone kicked Frumpkin while you were—” She gestures vaguely in front of her eyes.

“Oh. Well—it was not like that. I was only startled.” _I am, you know, sometimes skittish_ , he wants to add, to make it a joke, but—

“Uh huh.” Beau turns back to the cabinets, begins shuffling through some tins. “Whatever. Sorry I guess.” She rummages a little more, then shoves them away with a growl, stands. “Nothing to fuckin _eat_. I’m gonna go bug Jester. Have fun with your wizard shit.”

“I will,” Caleb says, a bit bewildered. “But it, eh, it is not wizard shit. It is a history text, of sorts. Epistolary. A series of letters—”

“I know what epistolary means.” Beau rolls her eyes.

“Well,” Caleb says. “Yes. Ah, um. It.” He taps his fingers on the page rapidly, as though it will jar the words loose. After a moment, it does. “It,” he says. “It is a bit funny, though.”

That sharpens her quick. She straightens, tilts her head. “Yeah? Funny how? Like, funny ha-ha, or funny _weird_?”

“Funny _weird_. The syntax is—” He holds up the book, taps a page. “—off. Consistently. And there a few, mm, stray marks? That I think are not so stray. If you look—”

“Lemme see.” Beau strides over, takes the book from his hands, scans the page with a frown. Flips a page, frowns deeper. “I don’t see anything. Like, fucky grammar I guess, but not everyone eats dictionaries for breakfast.”

He motions for her to keep going.

She scowls, but does. One more page. Scans it, still scowling, and then pauses with a finger halfway down, on a line Caleb hasn’t gotten to yet. The scowl doesn’t drop, but she stills, eyes narrowing. Flips two more pages ahead, and then two more, and then she drops to the floor cross-legged without warning.

She hands the book back. “Lemme see your notes.”

He passes them over.

She reads through slowly, scowling all the while, but there’s a brightness to her eyes, a kind of glint that’s familiar and makes him want, vaguely, to hum. He squashes the urge. (Wizards do not—well, they do hum sometimes, actually, for spells. But he does not want to disturb the moment.)

He turns back to the book instead, flips to where he left off. Gets a few paragraphs in, and then—

“You got another pen?”

Caleb frowns. Pats his pockets searchingly, though he knows precisely where his emergency pen is. Pulls it out, hands it to her. Pats his pockets again and pulls out another bit of paper, before she can scrawl all over his tidy, tidy notes.

She trades it for his scrap-page without a word, sets it on the ground, and sets to work, scribbling.

Caleb watches for a moment, trying to read her writing upside down, and then gives up and turns back to the book. After a moment’s thought, he sets it between them, sideways, and cranes his head funny, begins reading again.

Beau looks up, after a moment, and snorts. “Here.”

She scoots round to sit beside him. A foot of space between them. (Just enough.)

Caleb turns the book back round, and they both read.

It is quiet, for a time, just the scritch of pens on multiplying note-papers and the swish of Beau turning pages (because Caleb always turns them too quickly and Beau always snaps at him for it, and sometimes slugs him in the shoulder, so it is better that she turn the pages when she is ready, and he simply wait a few moments).

After sixteen minutes, a repeated _tap tap tap_ jars Caleb out of the half-wordless monologue running in the back of his head, parallel to the text. He looks up, blinking, and Beau’s tapping a circled scribble on her paper.

He squints at it.

It is a sentence fragment. It is not a sentence fragment he remembers reading, but it is coherent, and it makes sense in the context of the epistolary narrative they have been reading, and—

Before he can even begin to ask how, Beau explains, loud and quick and half-stumbling in her eagerness. (Caleb slaps his knees rapidly, one-two-three-four-five-six, because if he does not he may start shaking his hands and at this level of proximity he may end up elbowing Beau and that will not—end well.)

By the end of the explanation (which is really rather short, Beau is very good at explaining things concisely), they’re both grinning and Caleb is even more eager to dive back into the book, from the beginning, and make the nonsense make sense.

And so they do, together, slowly. And then faster and faster and—

Footsteps.

Caleb jumps midway through writing a sentence, and feels ink drip on his fingers, and grimaces internally. (It is going to smear the paper. The paper is already smeared, of course, because Beau has gotten more ink on her fingers than anywhere else, and she has jabbed at his notes more than once, but that is—different. It is different if it is Beau.) He looks up.

Jester beams down at him. “Hi!”

“Hey Jester,” Beau says, without looking up.

“What are you guys working on?”

“Ah,” Caleb says, eyes lighting up. “It is an—eh, it is a series of letters, coded letters. We have been deciphering them.”

“Ooooh!” Jester plops down in front of them and prods one of the loose papers. “What _kind_ of letters, are they _love_ letters?”

“Mm, of a sort. But they are also—”

“Was it a _forbidden romance_? Like in Courting of the—Krynn?”

“It—well, uh.” Caleb trips over the consonants. “Well, no. Or—perhaps? I do not know. But it does not seem to be? The sentiment is unhidden, the reason for the code seems more, we think—”

“Crime,” Beau says, without looking up.

“So...outlaw lovers?”

“Ehhh,” Caleb says. “It is, I do not know that I would—”

“Basically, yeah. Or—” Beau looks up, waves a hand in a so-so motion. “—kinda more like grifters? Like, look here—” She spins her notes around, shoves them at Jester. “They planned this heist, right, there was this gala—”

“Ooo-oooh!”

“Yeah!”

Caleb wants to interject, because strictly speaking that is not necessarily accurate—there were perhaps a few indications of romantic feeling in their relationship, but nothing concrete, and really the more exciting bit is an entirely different heist—the one with the illusions and enchanted tapestry and—

But Beau is still talking. Still talking, and clearly excited, and not even trying to _play it cool_ , as she would say (and punch him for even thinking).

So he says nothing, instead, and holds onto the words for later, and listens.

“—this _really expensive_ painting,” Beau says, “made by someone they knew, sounds like, and _hated_ , like, loose firecrackers at their funeral hated, and—”

“So they stole it?”

“Nah, nah, they talked about it, but it was too _easy_. So instead they decided to keep anyone else from bidding, and —”

Caleb wants to speak up, say something of the other options the pair had considered and dismissed, because they were all a little funny and Jester may appreciate them—but he is still waiting to say the other thing, and Beau is still talking, and he does not want to drag them off onto _another_ tangent.

So instead he waits, and holds onto those words too.

And then—

Another tangent, about piecing together what happened from vague references in other letters, and what Beau thinks happened (Caleb holds onto another possibility which he finds amusing), and then Jester asks how they solved the code in the first place, and Beau is all too eager to answer and Caleb is fine with that, because she is excited—fine until she says that Caleb did most of the work, as though she did not share in the bulk of it and also crack the final piece.

Then he shakes his head and opens his mouth to correct her, to say _team effort_ and _do not sell yourself short, Beauregard_ , but he takes a moment too long to sort out which to say first, and then she is talking again, about the first thing they deciphered.

So he tucks both thoughts aside and adds them to the end of the list of things he means to say, and runs over them inside his head while he waits for a moment to say them.

Finally, the conversation winds down a little, and there is space to speak, to bring up the things he has been wanting to say—

But.

It.

Where to begin? How to wrap the conversation back around to—it’s long since moved on from—eh, everything, really. So how—how is. What should. There’s—? It.

(What does it _matter_ , a tiny bit of his brain snipes. Just _say_ something, who cares, just—just say _oh, I just remembered_ and—)

Just. Just—

He opens his mouth, takes a sharp breath, _oh, I just remembered, oh, I just remembered, oh, I just_ —

Jester stands. Beau follows, dusting nothing off her pants (Caduceus keeps the floor immaculate, claims mopping is soothing).

Caleb closes his mouth and exhales quietly as they turn to the cabinets. His shoulders don’t slump, but the iron rod holding them up vanishes, and he leans back a little against the wall.

Too late, now. (Maybe he can say some of it to Nott, later. Or maybe Caduceus, if he has a free moment. He appreciates prattle, sometimes, when he is working. Caleb can’t imagine why, but he is not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.)

“Want anything, Caleb?” Beau calls.

He waves a hand dismissively, without looking up, and pulls his notes closer to himself, reads them over again. It is the truth, he is not particularly hungry, but more importantly, it saves him the trouble of having to specify what he wants to eat. (He is not sure whether he is completely out of words, or whether it’s just words for this particular conversation, but he’s unwilling to find out quite so...publicly, as it were. Best avoided for now.)

“Are you _sure_?” Jester asks. “I think we have some of Deucey’s bread still! It’s not warm, but maybe you could set it on fire or something! ...Orrr maybe not because then you might burn your hands if you stick them inside. So maybe don’t do that, but you could still have it plain!”

Caleb smiles, despite himself, and shakes his head. Taps the paper in front of him, goes back to reading.

“Oh. Well, okay, but I’m going to throw pastries at you later!”

He gives her a thumbs-up and pulls the paper up close to his eyes, partly because the letters are a little blurry and partly because it’s the clearest “please stop talking to me” signal he knows.

Jester takes the hint, and settles back into searching. She crows in victory a few minutes later, and leaves with her arms piled full of something (Caleb does not glance to see precisely what, but he expects from the pitch of her exclamation that it is at least seventy percent sugar), wishing them both good luck on her way out.

He offers her a vague smile and an absentminded wave, still reading, and then she is gone.

Beau sits a few feet from him again, setting down a tray of ham with a clatter and snagging one of his discarded note pages. She begins to read and eat at the same time, chewing obnoxiously loudly. (The only reason that he does not punch her in the shoulder—besides that she would return the gesture hard enough to turn his whole shoulder green for three days—is that Nott eats even louder. This, in comparison, is not so bad.)

They read in silence.

Then Beau nudges him. “You’ve been kinda quiet. You good?”

He nods.

“You lying to me?”

He wants to say no, but he isn’t sure he can. He wants to sign “Knock it off, I’m truly okay,” but that would give the game away. So he just shakes his head.

“...Kay. Only asking cause Jester was worried.”

He gives her a confused look, tilts his head in question.

“She thought maybe she upset you with her little fire comment, or the bread thing or something. Said something about dirt on your face?”

Dirt on his…? Caleb reaches up to brush his cheek, though he knows it's clean, and it's probably just Jester continuing the bit (though that doesn't really make sense in context, entirely), and then stops, brow unfurrowing, because the motion reminds him—

Zadash.

Their first trip. The Tri Spires, the bread, the money talk. The mud swept down his face to make a point he couldn’t articulate.

Of course.

Caleb wants to smile, because it feels so long ago now, and he wants to wince, because in hindsight the move was petty and unkind. Embarrassing, as well. He settles for neither, half-raises a finger, opens his mouth to explain—

Finds himself at a loss for where to begin. With the money, or the bread, or where they were, or why they were buying bread, or with a preface about how he apologized shortly thereafter and how it is water under the bridge, or with a direct response to what Beau has said, with a reassurance that Jester was wrong rather than an explanation of her erroneous assumption, or—

A long moment passes. Beau raises an eyebrow expectantly, and the options shrivel up.

Caleb closes his mouth. Drops his hand to his lap, shakes his head again, grimacing.

Beau frowns. “Okay, then uh. What gives.”

He shrugs. (Maybe she’ll leave it alone if he seems reticent enough.)

“Yeah, see, you’re still not talking.”

He shrugs just one shoulder. (Then again, perhaps not.)

“What’s up with that. Cat got your tongue?”

He looks her dead in the eye and summons Frumpkin, then makes a show of peeking in Frumpkin’s mouth. Then he lifts his head and gives Beau his flattest stare.

“Funny,” she says, sounding utterly unamused. “Really though, what’s up. I thought you’d be all over explaining this shit to Jessie.” She flips through a few pages.

Caleb considers shrugging again, as he cards his fingers through Frumpkin’s fur. Settles for dismissing him. Then, hands freed from distractions, he signs, “I tried.”

“Oh. Well why didn’t you just, like right now—” Beau cuts herself off. “Nope. Never mind. Stupid question.”

It is not so stupid. He usually does switch over to sign when his words go. But the answer is a little obvious (Jester knows the least Common sign of everyone in the group) and Beau has clearly already reached it, so he does not offer her any reassurances, only shrugs.

“Can I ask maybe another stupid question?”

“Go ahead.”

“You were talking earlier. Something happen?”

It is difficult to explain, and may make her feel bad besides, so— “No.”

“That’s bullshit, but alright.”

Caleb makes a frustrated noise. “Truly, no. I…” A long pause. “You spoke. I waited. Too long. I lost the words. That is all.”

It isn’t a perfect explanation, and it isn’t as polite as he would like. It’s probably going to make Beau look at him all blank and uncomprehending and maybe annoyed.

—And there, yes, there is the half-glare, incredulous and irritated, twisting across her face. “So I talked too much and you just gave up?”

Caleb frowns. “No. I tried to speak. You spoke. So, I waited. Tried again. You spoke. I kept waiting and trying. When I had time to speak? Difficult. When I tried? Nothing happened.”

“Ah.” The incredulity drops out of her face. A scowl replaces it. “So I cut you off too much, is what you’re saying.”

Caleb makes a face. It is accurate, to a degree, but missing part of the picture. He begins to shake his head, lifts his hands, but before he can explain—

“Well, sorry,” Beau says, not sounding very sorry at all, “for butting in. Didn’t realize. I _assumed_ —whatever. Guess I’ll get out of your damn hair.” If she was sharp before, she’s double-edged now, and wrought with spikes beside. (Caleb has, abruptly, the impression of a porcupine with daggers for spines, and cannot imagine why.)

“What? Why?”

“Giving you _space_ ,” she says stiffly, standing. “Got what I came for anyway. Didn’t mean to _hang around_.”

“You are not intruding?”

“Bullshit.” She gestures to his hands, the papers scattered on the floor, and—bizarrely—the kitchen at large.

Caleb looks around it, and frowns. A few small pieces click into place.

“Yeah, exactly. So I’m just gonna go. Got shit to do anyway.” Beau takes a step forward.

“You are not intruding,” he says again, without the furrowed brow and _with_ motions a little sharper than he means to make them. “Stay. I want to talk.”

“Yeah, well, _I_ don’t.”

“Then listen,” he says, still sharp.

Beau flinches.

“Sorry,” he says reflexively. “Please?”

Beau glowers, but sits back down.

“You misunderstood. I was unclear.”

“Seemed perfectly clear to me.”

 _I thought you didn’t want to talk_ , Caleb wants to say, but he doesn’t. It would not go over well. Instead, he says, “No. Three things. One. I am not angry at you.” That one’s a guess, he is not entirely sure that she _thinks_ he is angry, but it seems possible, even probable, that—

A slightly derisive sound. (Well. There it is then.)

“Two.” He points to his hands. “This? Not your fault.”

“You said I interrupted.”

“Yes. But accidentally. You were excited. The work was half yours. Besides,” he says, a bit impishly, “Jester interrupted also.”

Beau looks unamused. “So it’s Jester’s fault now?”

“No, mine. I—” _Am just like this_ , he wants to say. “Sometimes it happens,” he says instead. “I know this. I have other ways to talk.” He wiggles his fingers, points at the pens on the ground. “I did not use them.”

“Okay, but you wouldn’t have needed them if I hadn’t interrupted.”

“You were excited,” he repeats. “And I chose not to contribute. My fault.”

“Whatever.” She crosses her arms. “What’s your third point. Or are you done.”

He gestures to the kitchen. “This is not my space. It belongs to everyone.”

“What’s your _point_ ,” she repeats.

“Suppose I work in here? That does not change.”

“Obviously not.”

Caleb continues like she hasn’t spoken. “Suppose, while I work, you walk in? That does not change. It belongs to everyone.”

“Kinda repeating yourself here.” She sounds uncomfortable.

Caleb ignores it, looks her dead in the eye. “It is your space too. This is your home, Beauregard. You are not intruding.”

Beau says nothing.

“Our conversation with Jester? Same thing. It is your work, we are your friends. We want to hear your thoughts.”

Beau says nothing.

Caleb hesitates, hands in the air. Then, because he has come this far, and if she is going to punch him, she is going to punch him, so he may as well round things out. “You are not intruding. Ever.”

Beau says nothing.

Caleb folds his hands in his lap. Presses the pad of his thumb to the side of his knuckle, worries the skin back and forth.

Then Beau nods. And then again. Then reaches out an arm, awkwardly, pats him on the shoulder, once, and then punches him. Hard.

He would swear if he had the words.

As it is, he makes an embarrassing sort of yelp and claps a hand to the spot.

“Sorry! Don’t be a sap!”

Caleb’s mouth quirks up at one side, and he nods.

“Anyway,” Beau says. “I uh. I.”

Caleb waits.

“I really do have stuff to do,” she finishes, scratching the back of her head. “I kinda. Forgot, in all the—” She waves a hand at the book. “Deuces wants me to help him with the whatsit.”

Caleb nods. There was a conversation at breakfast—Caduceus would like her help with the shopping. He wants to experiment with cooking wines, wants her expertise. (Though when, precisely, Caduceus learned about her family’s winemaking business, he cannot fathom.)

“But uh. Fore I go. Three things?”

He tilts his head to one side.

“One, uh. I know it was like. Your choice, and my conversation too and all. But like. Pretty sure that goes both ways? So like, just. If it hap— _when_ it happens again, can you just tell me? Like, if I’m interrupting. I can’t—I’ll try not to, or whatever, but if you could just tell me to shut up, that’d be—yeah. Or. Shit, if it’s too—okay, if you can’t say it, just sign it. Just— _tell_ me somehow. I don’t wanna monopolize that shit.”

That sounds reasonable. “I will not need to often, B-U-T okay.”

Her shoulders visibly relax. “Good. Okay, uh, two. Uhh. Thanks, for.” She waves a hand. “Letting me in on your weird code shit. Was fun. Killed a few hours.”

Caleb is consumed with the very abrupt desire to snap Frumpkin right into her arms. He busies his hands saying “Of course” instead.

She nods. Half-turns. “Anyway. Gonna go. Gotta. Go bug Caddyshack.”

“Beauregard,” he says.

“Yeah?”

He has a feeling he already knows, but— “What was the third thing?”

She blinks. Turns back. “Oh, right. Uhh.” She makes a show of pretending to think. “Got it. You’re a _nerd_.”

Caleb half-smiles, cheeks and chest humming with amusement, and indicates goggles. “That’s you.”

“I’m a _jock_.”

“You’re a nerd. You are a monk, you know many odd things, you speak many languages, you have learned two codes for fun—”

“Three,” Beau says. “Know some Thieves’ Cant.”

“—three codes for fun, you have a favorite M-O-R-P-H-E-M-E—”

“Who _doesn’t_ have a favorite morpheme?”

“Beauregard,” Caleb says.

“What? Some morphemes are _objectively_ —”

“Shut up,” he says, halfway between uncertain and amused.

“Fuck you,” Beau says, but she doesn’t seem angry. (Or hurt, and Caleb makes sure to check—but there doesn’t _seem_ to be any upset hiding in annoyance in the lines of her face, or the set of her shoulders, or anywhere else he’s found it often lurks, with Beau.)

“You have a favorite M-O-R-P-H-E-M-E,” he says again, after a moment, “and you have a least favorite historian. Who has those? Nerds.”

Beau is quiet for a long moment, and for that moment Caleb is worried that he’s done it wrong—he was only proving that he would do what she asked, and making a bit of a joke, but perhaps he’s hurt her feelings? perhaps he should have said it differently? or waited until much later? or?—but then she rolls her eyes and says, “Some morphemes are objectively cooler, and some historians are _objectively_ biased assholes. _And_ ,” she adds. “You know who _else_ has all that shit? _You_.”

“Of course I do,” he says. “I am a nerd.”

Beau rolls her eyes. “Ha ha.” The laugh is flat and fake and dripping with sarcasm, but the corner of her mouth is twitching and she looks like she wants to punch him, so he’s succeeded, he’s pretty sure.

He hums internally, tucking the image away for later, and taps on his knees.

“Anyway,” she says. “That’s it, that’s three, I’m out. Gotta find Cad before he makes that face—you know the one, the I’m not mad I’m—”

“Disappointed,” he says, nodding and trying to mimick it.

Beau actually does laugh at that. “Yeah, that’s the one. So—wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” he says dutifully. “I will save your papers for you.”

“Oh.” She blinks. “Uh. Okay, cool. Thanks.”

“When you return, we can finish. I will wait.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

Beau rolls her eyes. “Let me guess. It’s my project too, or some shit?”

“Yes.”

She rolls her eyes again, waves a hand. “All right, thanks, cool. Really though, I’m out. Bye.”

He waves.

She turns to go. At the entryway, she tosses over her shoulder, “Nerd.”

A single, silent laugh escapes him, and then he sets about arranging their notes into two neat piles. Part of him is a little regretful—the little hidden narrative is very interesting, and he would very much like to finish deciphering it with Beau straight away—but it is only a very small part. The organizing is nice. Soothing, in its way, as he settles easily into a slow rhythm and picks apart the pattern of their thoughts, creates a third pile to account for the overlap.

And besides, he thinks idly, as he slips another paper in the third pile. Besides. It is only until tonight. And even were it longer—

He would not mind waiting.

It’s Beau.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all will pry autistic adhd beau w/a special interest in languages & codes & shit from my cold dead hands.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr at [arodrwho](http://www.arodrwho.tumblr.com)


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